“Ah, yeah! I almost got my head blown off. Don’t you think I should?”
“It’s up to you,” flatly replied my brother. “I could arrest him.”
I detected in Kyle a lack of enthusiasm for the action. “But you don’t want to.”
“I’d prefer not to,” said Kyle.
“You prefer not to. Really? Thank you, Bartleby.”
“There is also the paperwork.”
I was more than a little miffed with Kyle’s attitude toward my being almost shot dead. “Really? You don’t want to charge him. Well, how about giving him a summons or something? Or does that require more paperwork?”
“I gave him another warning, and I said that I was telling his wife.”
“What!”
I looked to Peterson for support, but he shook his head in agreement with his boss. “It seems fair. He’s a good egg. He just shouldn’t be shooting his gun off all the time.”
“Really?” Whether because I was outnumbered, or have a kind heart, or was walloped on the head the year before, and I was still suffering the consequences, I took my brother’s lead. “Well, then, I guess that I won’t press charges. But I do want to talk to this, Mr. Maple Syrup. ”
“Douglas Mapledale,” interjected Peterson.
“Yeah, I want to speak to good old Doug.” I needed to spend the remaining adrenaline in my system, or I would explode. I always found that a good old-fashioned harangue was an excellent way to get rid of stress.
“You can talk to him all you want,” answered Kyle calmly—finally having regained a regular breathing pattern—“but he won’t be able to hear you until we get a new battery for his hearing aid.”
“Well, that is just dandy.”
“Ayup, that is how it goes sometimes,” remarked Kyle as he took out a handkerchief from his back pants pocket. “Give me a sec, guys. There must be ragweed or something around here that I’m allergic to.” After a hearty clearing of his trumpet, which startled some nearby birds into flight, my brother led the way to Mr. Mapledale and the others. Our slow—laborious for Kyle—hike through the knee-high weeds and bushes was brief but productive. On the way, we found Kyle’s radio’s battery on the ground next to some gnawed remains of a dead raccoon.
#
CHAPTER 10
The walk calmed me down a bit by the time we reached my uncle’s neighbor’s driveway, where Trooper Cobourne, Joe, and Mapledale were waiting for us.
“There’s your sniper,” said Kyle chuckling as he pointed to a white-haired gentleman who was talking to our companions. “That’s Douglas Mapledale.”
As I approached my assailant, I sized up Mapledale to be in his mid-sixties, of average height and obviously weighing less than I did. He had a ruddy-tan complexion as if he spent much of his time outdoors.
I noticed that his faded jeans and green windbreaker were both damp and soiled, at the knees and elbows. Up close, I spotted grime on his cheeks and the lenses of his metal frame glasses. There was a pair of pruning shears sticking out of his jacket pocket. “A gardener with a gun,” I thought to myself. “That is a combination with noting.”
“Doug,” shouted Kyle, smiling, as he took Mapledale’s hand and gently escorted it to me to grasp, “this is my brother, Richard.”
“Oh, I am so very, very sorry,” loudly said Mapledale, as if he were talking over city traffic. He grabbed my hand in a tight grip and shook it, from what I could tell, with all sincerity. “Please, please forgive me. I wasn’t shooting at you . . . or you, deputy.”
The apology seemed genuine, but I wasn’t ready to let bygones be bygones just yet. My nerves were still sparking from Mapledale’s unintended shotgun blasts. “Someone could have gotten killed,” I crossly declared—but not loud enough, apparently.
“Your kitten was killed! Oh, fudge, when will this terrible business end. I’m so, so sorry. That is terrible.” While still holding my hand, Mapledale suddenly swung his other arm around my shoulder and gave me a consoling hug. “With your uncle’s passing and your cat being killed, it hasn’t been a good time for you.”
No, it wasn’t a good time for me on so many levels, and it was still morning.
“Excuse me,” I said, “you misunderstood. I don’t have any cats.” I politely but firmly extracted myself from Mapledale’s clinch.
“Oh?” My uncle’s neighbor focused intently on my lips.
Being aware of my audience, I spoke slowly—and loudly—“What were you shooting at?”
“He was shooting at the Beast,” loudly interjected Kyle.
Mapledale nodded to confirm. “The Sheriff doesn’t believe that the thing exists,” protested my assailant. “I used the word ‘beast’ once in a conversation about a month ago, and he hasn’t let up on it since. But that thing is prowling about in this area, and nobody can convince me otherwise.”
“What is this beast?” I asked again.
“Who is best?” said Mapledale in his confusion.
“The Beast,” loudly repeated my brother, chuckling.
“The beast is a catamount,” answered Mapledale.
“A catamount?” I said in disbelief.
“That’s a mountain lion,” rejoined Peterson. “Sometimes known as—”
“Thanks, Deputy, I know what it is.” And I instinctively scanned our immediate surroundings—I saw nothing unusual.
“Doug,” calmly stated my brother, “there haven’t been any catamounts in Vermont since the late 1800s.”
“Don’t tell me that. There were catamount sightings last year over in Woodford.”
“There are always catamount sightings, especially in Woodford for some reason. But there isn’t any evidence—no videos, photos, or any prints of the darn thing. There’s not even a trace of any cougar . . . poop.”
“Scat is the term, Sheriff,” interjected Peterson.
“Thank you, Deputy . . . No one has found any cougar scat.” My brother pushed back his hat from his forehead and spoke very sympathetically. “I’m sorry, Doug, about your dog, but there aren’t any catamounts. And you can’t go around shooting at them even if there were. People could get hurt.”
“I took pictures.”
“ I have seen your photos. You have pictures of dents in the dirt.”
“A catamount is around, Sheriff, and it ate my Marie-France’s dog, Bobby, about four hours ago!”
As the great catamount debate went on, I noticed Joe quietly talking to Trooper Cobourne some feet away from us. I didn’t catch what they were talking about, but I was sure it wasn’t about cat poop.
“Still,” declared Kyle, “you can’t go around shooting catamounts. If they were inhabiting around here—and they AREN’T—but if they were, they would be an endangered species. Meaning they are protected. And being protected, you’d have to be pretty badly mauled by the catamount to have any pretext in shooting it. And, even then, you would still be in hot water —Ayup, up to your ears. The state authorities, the Feds, the environmentalists, the animal protection folks, not to mention the social media cuckoos, they would all be on you like flypaper stuck on cat’s fur. Why you would have an easier time of it if you had actually shot and killed my brother.”
“Thanks, Kyle,” I quipped. “It’s good to know that you always have my back.”
“I’m just saying,” unabashedly replied Kyle.
As un-nerving as my brother’s comment was, there was truth in what he said.
My gentler angel counseled me. I reluctantly said to my brother, “I won’t press charges.”
Kyle, in turn, explained to Mapledale what I had agreed to. With a big smile, the lone gunman, again, took my hand and pumped it with heartfelt gratitude.
“But,” added Kyle, “I warn you; don’t let this happen again.” With a few more admonishments concerning gun safety, permits, property rights, and other legal matters, the shooting incident came to a close. As a peace gesture, Mapledale invited all of us to his house—only a few yards away—for a cup of coffee and something t
o eat. For a hook, he said that his wife had just baked a coconut-cherry, German chocolate cake and insisted that we all have some.
I was still full from breakfast. I didn’t think that Joe was hungry. Who knew if Trooper Cobourne was—I didn’t care. I wanted to continue to investigate what had happened at my uncle’s house. Kyle, of course, had a different agenda; he quickly accepted on our group’s behalf. Declaring he had tasted Marie-France’s chocolate cake on some previous occasion, he concluded that he wasn’t going to let an opportunity for another piece slip by.
So off we all went.
In our trek up the winding driveway to the house, I learned that the Mapledales were originally from New York City. Doug was a grammar school principal, and his wife was an English/French translator for some big oil company. The two of them fell in love with this part of Vermont on a vacation trip some years back, and they decided to move up here when they retired two years ago.
The Mapledale home was a small ranch-style house that had been constructed on the site of an abandoned farmhouse that was in some way associated with the old mansion—the details of which were unknown to me at the time. I thought the new place was well designed, having both an old New England charm and easy maintenance capability. The house’s red vinyl clapboard and fieldstone construction fit quite nicely in the autumnal Vermont country landscape. The lawn, however, still suffered from large bare spots where the ryegrass hadn’t yet taken to the rocky New England soil. But in time, that too, I’m sure, would be remedied. In short, I thought that Mapledale home was a picture-perfect replacement for the old shack that had stood here before.
When we got to the front porch, we were greeted by a scarecrow-witch holding a bundle of cornstalks. “My wife’s doings,” loudly declared Mapledale as he opened the door and motioned to us to enter, “Marie-France loves decorating for the holidays.”
“And cooking for them, I hear,” added Kyle with anticipation.
The home’s interior was quaintly appointed for the season. Ears of dried Indian corn overflowed from baskets strategically placed on several tables while multi-colored gourds and mini-pumpkins were displayed on every other bookshelf. Neatly bundled cornstalks stood in the corners of both the living room and the main hallway. A type of bunting made from dried vines, sprigs of orange berry bittersweet, and autumnal maple leaves festooned the windows.
The Mapledale’s side parlor had been meticulously prepared for Halloween. One couldn’t help notice the vast spans of fake cobwebs dangling from the room’s ceiling, the scores of plastic rats with glowing red eyes huddled in the darker corners, and the steaming cauldron that was guarded by one of those six-foot-tall mechanical witches. The room looked like a backdrop for a photo shoot for a seasonal candy advertisement. In fact, the entire Mapledale home looked like a stage set for a TV holiday special.
As our troop walked into the kitchen, the sweet smells of cinnamon, chocolate, and vanilla haunted the air. Doug greeted a middle-aged woman who was rolling out dough. “Marie-France, I have invited the sheriff and his friends for cake and coffee.”
Mrs. Mapledale, a woman in her early sixties with tightly curled, auburn hair, gave us all a welcoming, “How wonderful, company.” My impression of her was that she looked like a younger, cuter, and more shapely version of Mrs. Santa Claus. Aside from her cheerful greeting and demeanor, her puffy eyes and her too broad smile revealed the half-hidden secret that she had been crying.
She quickly wiped her hands on her crisply pressed apron, grabbed her husband by his upper arm, and kissed him on the cheek. She was about to speak but suddenly paused. Her apparent inner sadness gave way to alarm. She furtively looked at Kyle and then at the rest of us. “Doug Dear, are you in trouble?”
“Ah . . . well, you see—”
“No, Marie-France,” said Kyle, coming to Doug’s rescue. “Your husband is not in trouble, but he almost got himself into some very deep hot water.” My brother took the Mapledale’s shotgun from Peterson. With some knowledgeable manipulation, Kyle emptied the gun’s remaining shells and put them in his pocket. “But next time—” Kyle gave the empty weapon back to Mapledale along with a hard stare.
“Thank you, Sheriff.”
“Lock that thing away now, please.”
Without a word of protest, Mapledale left the room with the shotgun. Filling in the time until Doug’s return, Kyle formally introduced us all to Marie-France and briefly informed her of her husband’s latest escapade.
Mapledale’s wife felt embarrassed and wanted to make amends for her husband’s transgression. “You fellows must be hungry. Please, do come into the dining room and have some coffee and a piece of homemade cake. And be the first to see my table centerpiece.” With evident pride in her voice, our escort led the way while recounting her endeavors in finding, cleaning, and preparing the maple and oak leaves that formed the foundation for her holiday display.
“Wow!” said Peterson’s immediately upon seeing Marie-France’s craft project close up. And I think his appraisal represented all of our thoughts—wow, indeed. We all sat down around the long wooden table with our eyes transfixed on the leaf-littered pumpkin patch centerpiece before us.
“It’s beautiful, Dear,” said Doug entering the room—who was no longer speaking as loudly as he was before.
“Thank, you,” said Marie-France, genuinely pleased. “I see that you replaced the battery in your aide. Quite right, Dear. Quite right. Now, gentleman, let me give you some cake. And, Doug, please get the coffee.”
As Kyle said outside, Marie-France’s baking proved to be superb. Her chocolate genoise sponge cake was simply delicious and met with everyone’s approval. Kyle was on his second piece when the issue of my uncle’s death came up.
“We are so sorry, Sheriff,” said Marie-France, “to hear of your uncle’s passing. What happened?”
The Mapledale’s lack of knowledge concerning the details of Uncle Raymond’s death sent all the eyes at the table in Kyle’s direction. My brother, who had just landed a large forkful of cake into his mouth, signaled with a raised palm that he was in the process of swallowing. Then after a quick swipe of his napkin, removing the traces of frosting from his lips, Kyle finally spoke up, “A stroke.”
Peterson and I looked at each other with surprise. That was not the answer that we were expecting. A quick glance at Cobourne’s demeanor told me that the deputy and I were out of the loop. I turned to Joe, and I got a dismissive, affirming nod.
“This is excellent cake,” said my old college friend. “Don’t you think, Richard?”
“Yeah, quite tasty,” I answered while I gave an unblinking stare at Kyle. “He died of a stroke,” I said, almost intoning a question.
“Yes, it was confirmed when you and deputy Peterson were milling about the old estate ruins. Cobourne and I got word from the medical examiner that Uncle Raymond died from a stroke.”
I had dozens of questions for my brother at that time—and some very choice comments—but they would have to wait.
“A stroke, how sad,” repeated Marie-France. “He seemed like a nice old gentleman, your uncle. Though we didn’t know him very well. We only met him a few times . . . and some of them not under the best of circumstances.”
“Really?”
“Yes, unfortunately,” continued Doug. “We first met him at the town hall when we were getting our building permits. He was dead set against our building our house here. According to our lawyer, he filed every legal obstacle that he could to stop us from putting up our house here.”
“I never knew.” My ignorance about the situation must have shown on my face.
“It wasn’t that he didn’t like us,” said Marie-France, “or anything like that. In fact, he sent over a very nice selection of fruit when we finally did move in. Didn’t he, Dear?”
“He did. It had pieces of Honey Dew melon and strawberries. I love—”
“But why?” I asked. “Why was he opposed to you living here? Your house is some distance from his. Y
ou can barely see the rooftop of this house from his second-floor windows, and your place is better looking than the shack that was here before.”
“Well,” said Marie-France, very diplomatically, “I think he felt that a new structure within the old estate boundaries would be harmful to the wildlife.”
Remembering some of the half-forgotten lore of the estate, I asked, “Your home is on the old Easty farm, isn’t it?”
“What was left of the farm, anyway,” said Marie-France. “To my understanding, Earle Hampton, the railroad man back in the day, purchased most of the Easty farm and the surrounding lands to build his estate. The story goes, that part of the land deal was that old man Easty would serve as . . . a type of steward for the farm.”
“Then some years later,” I said, connecting old memories with new information, “the Hampton lands were bought by a bootlegger. And he made an agreement with his groundskeeper concerning the gatehouse when he built the old mansion. The gatehouse property would be given to that fellow upon the bootlegger’s death and eventually, somehow, became my uncle’s home. Kyle, do you remember or know any other details about Uncle Raymond’s house?”
My brother’s mouth was too preoccupied to give me a verbal response; he just nodded—yes.
“Well,” continued Marie-France, “your uncle’s place was originally given to the estate’s groundskeeper, who, as rumor has it, may have been the illegitimate son of the mobster who owned the mansion. It is a rumor. There is no proof, of course.”
“It still is a mystery of sorts,” said Kyle after a hard swallow. “I couldn’t find the name of the so call bootlegger. A couple of years ago, I was at the town clerk’s office and looked up information on Uncle’s house. I remember that I found only two deeds listed on the property. One was for the gatehouse and the other for the old mansion. Both were owned at one time by some European legal trust or something.”
Kyle poured himself more coffee. “The gatehouse deed came into Uncle Raymond’s possession many years ago about the same time the state of Vermont was seeking to take possession of the old mansion grounds for back taxes . . . though I don’t know if that issue was resolved.” Kyle sipped his coffee and didn’t say another word.
The Hotspur Affair: A Richard & Morgana MacKenzie Mystery Page 11
